Unlimited Plan (*)

Paradisiac ending

48.

Pamalican Island, Philippines

Phoenix has been enjoying the best hours of his life. A true delight to the senses, Pamalican is one of the seven thousand small islands covering the Philippines' tax haven. This archipelago tops the OECD blacklist. A clear sky meets a crystal sea that gently caresses the fine white sand flowing almost like liquid between the fingers. The shade provided by tall palm trees with wide arms protects the colorful tropical vegetation and intoxicating scents from the ardor of the sun. The nights are calm, silent, barely rocked by a light lapping of waves. The dishes are finely prepared and rightly seasoned with a hint of local spices.

The entire island is privately owned and under management of a company specialized in hosting a privileged clientele. A luxurious hotel complex of individual bungalows offers all the amenities. For the wealthier, property access is also possible. A team of architects is then commissioned to build the most sumptuous villas. The house staff is even provided to ensure proper operation.

While waiting for the construction of his own six hundred square yards palace with a swimming pool and private beach, Phoenix enjoys renting one of the bungalows. Lying on a tilted blue lounger, he lets the gentle breeze play with the light flaps of his Egyptian cotton shirt floating on his too-thin torso. Sheltered from the ardor of the sun under a large umbrella, his albino eyes protected behind tainted glasses, he admires the breathtaking view of the turquoise expanse dotted by the coral's dark areas. To his right, a teak side table supports a frosted cup filled with an orange fruity drink. The glass's condensation, where ice cubes tinkle, slowly flows down its harmonious curve. A drop lazily splashes on the copy of "The Times" that Phoenix hasn't opened yet, unconcerned about the outside world's affairs. He grabs the drink and draws three long sips through the two straws probing its depths.

Behind him, about fifty-five yards away, lies the main building of the hotel complex. Over this distance, an army of gardeners in spotless blue and gray polos fervently maintains an English lawn. White gravel lanes snake neatly through the green expanse, leading to various points of interest; the beach, the swimming pool, the open-air bar, the golf course, the aerodrome, and the bungalows. Occasionally, an electric cart silently passes on a pathway, transporting staff or residents in their wanderings.

Phoenix has been living in this little paradise for two days. The seven hundred and fifty million dollars were deposited on time. The complex fund transfers rotation program set up by Phoenix instantly siphoned them, spreading them through the network of ghost accounts created by Brian Wessler, and made untraceable thanks to Sergey Kagda's algorithm. Phoenix keeps the money in perpetual motion among his thousands of bank accounts. He uses at his leisure only the dividends that arrive at a large establishment in Manila—less than two hundred and fifty miles away. A financial institution that, of course, maintains no fiscal agreement with other countries.

He succeeded. Soon, the construction of his personal villa on this paradise island would be completed. He would have his own boat, why not his private plane too? To free himself from the shuttle schedule that connects Manila and to bring gallant companies from the continent at his convenience? He exhales in pleasure. He has indeed dominated all those fools in retrospect. Kinkaid and his clique, always one step behind. Baltac and his Doctor, finally neutralized. Even Macmillan and his team, who will now be the only ones to pay while he enjoys his slice of paradise.

When he intercepted the call of Baltac's right-hand man to the major, after the Doctor's death, he could have warned Macmillan about the tightening of the investigation. But all things considered, justice would invariably want culprits, and dismantling the mercenary's crew should suffice to appease it. He is now untouchable.

His mobile, placed on the newspaper, emits a heavy buzz like a drone. The albino grabs it and reads a message from the Manila Bank that confuses him: the entirety of his funds, supposed to always travel from institution to institution, has been relocated to his main account. He frowns and logs onto the bank's website. An error must have crept into his transfer rotation program.

He confirms with a glance the withdrawals and deposits coming from thousands of international accounts. His real-time statement shows a sum of over $740,000,000.00.

$710,000,000.00...

$680,000,000.00...

$650,000,000.00...

Phoenix straightens to sit on the lounger's edge, the countdown continues its progression. All the money is being siphoned off in increments of thirty millions. Increments that are accelerating. He snatches off his sunglasses in a fit of rage and drops them in the sand. He frantically types on his phone's miniature keyboard, trying to stem his capital's outflow. But the countdown suddenly speeds up, until the fateful figure appears: $0.00.

"No! It's impossible!"

He stands up abruptly, his height aligning with the parasol's fringe, absurdly crowning him.

A text message in French replaces the bank's website display on his screen: "lost something?"

The American now scans around suspiciously. Just in front of the building, under the protection of a gazebo surrounded by purple bougainvillea, a man observes him. Phoenix cannot discern his face, hidden in the shadow of the construction and by the brims of an Australian bush hat. The stranger could very well be admiring the beach. But it seems to him that he is aiming a phone in his direction, as if he were filming the scene with its integrated camera.

There, the man lifts a glass that had been resting on the gazebo's railing and toasts towards Phoenix.

"Cheers!" displays on his screen.

The albino casts an anxious glance at his own half-empty drink.

The stranger takes a sip and slightly pushes back his hat, stepping into the bright sunlight that immediately reveals his face.

"Impossible, Phoenix stammers..."

A final message appears as a signature: "Samouraï du Soleil & The Doctor." A long shiver runs through Phoenix despite the high ambient temperature. He drops his mobile, half-buried in the sand. Too late, he already feels the pain crawling up his temples.

This is impossible, he ponders... These two are dead... Baltac in a public place, in front of witnesses... The Doctor's body was extracted from the ruins of his home ... the media even talked about it. No, they cannot...

Before the agony engulfs his brain, a last lightning-fast thought imposes itself on him, a revelation: Kinkaid! He and Baltac orchestrated everything! Kinkaid supplied the witnesses, the providential employee in the alley, the body in the rubble, the media coverage, and even staged his meeting with Baltac's right-hand man to reinforce this fiction. And SdS, protected by the Doctor's skills, just performed in that alley. Phoenix was played at his own game. The last few days have been a gigantic masquerade. Baltac and the Doctor faked their deaths to act at their leisure, while he proceeded with his original plan unsuspectingly.

Thrown back by a violent jolt, Phoenix sprawls across the sun lounger, overturning the side table. The drink flies, and its content traces an orange arabesque in the air. His limbs, shaken by convulsions, flail vainly for a few seconds, then he collapses definitively.

Two men in suits—an utterly incongruous attire in this place—run along the beach. Kinkaid arrives first, closely followed by Waterson who comments: "Damn, what happened here?"

The major casts a circular glance, stopping at the empty glass lying in the sand and the half-buried mobile.

"It looks like we're too late..."

Waterson has pulled out his phone from his jacket to call for help.

"No need... Kinkaid cuts him off. This time Phoenix is truly dead."

"We still need to check with a doctor."

Kinkaid observes in the distance the silhouette of a man turning his back to them and serenely leaving the shelter of a gazebo to head towards the main building. Eyes fixed on the ponytail protruding under the brims of the Australian hat, the major declares: "Something tells me this one's death has already been confirmed by a Doctor."